Welcome to the Bank of Daggerfall
by Newtinmpls
Summary: An Orisimer, returned to Tamriel from his ordeal in Cold Harbor, walks into a bank and the coinclerk reminds him of someone. Includes: Angier Stower, Mihayya.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Why do we have so many characters in ESO? Well from a strictly gaming or even power-gaming standpoint it's probably to make sure we can all have enough crafters to make all the stuff we want. Or adventure in all three "pacts" at once. Or have pack mule characters to store stuff. I came to computer gaming by way of RPG's so that's not how I think. I think that there are eight characters so I can have more members of a particular clan – or in-laws of that family, or friends of that clan (and possibly family of those folks). So when I roll up a new character he or she has to fit into these relationships somewhere, otherwise what would be the point of me playing them?_

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention**

**~~Once more Into the Breach~~**

"Moths." Mol gro Durag muttered to himself.

At first he hadn't been sure what the fluttering little creatures were, that swarmed around the strange blind priest that Lyris Titanborn had insisted on rescuing. Moths, that's what they were, moths. Hundreds of tiny little moths. They weren't physically present. The orisimer's maul and then his arm had swept through the swirling mass of them as if through nothing more than a beam of sunlight. Hundreds of moths, made of nothing more than light and shadow.

And now this odd old man, with his fluttery retinue of teeny ghosts, told him to jump into empty space and trust that some Aedra that Mol wasn't even sure he actually believed in, was going to carry him off back to Nirn.

But. But Lyris had fought well at his side, and trusted this strange man enough to offer herself as prisoner in the old man's place. Mol gro Durag respected that kind of sacrifice.

The priest chanted confidently to Akotosh, and the moths swirled ever higher. Mol shifted his grip on his weapon and pressed a hand to his right temple, where he was still bleeding. The odd collection of bones and rotting flesh that he'd defeated hadn't gone down without a fight. Mol was fairly sure nothing was broken, but he couldn't seem to stop the trickle of blood from that temple, and his eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him. The moths were forming some sort of cloud, and the old man stepped forward onto it.

A cloud of moths shouldn't be able to hold up anything.

"Quickly!" The priest urged.

Ever since he'd woken in this strange place it seemed like everything had to be done 'quickly'. Well, what was the worse that could happen? After all, apparently he had already died? For some reason that struck him as funny, and he was chuckling as he stepped forward onto the firm platform of insubstantial moths.

He felt himself lifted, much more firmly than a cloud of moths ought to have done. He started laughing out loud.

**~~And Then~~**

He woke, cramped and uncomfortable, in a bed that was sized for men, not orisimer. He felt solid. Alive? Well he'd have to assume so. He tried to unfold himself and ended up landing on the floor with a loud thump.

"Ouch." He said softly.

Looking around, there was no one else in the room, but three other rumpled beds testified to the fact that someone had been. Or several someones. He thought back to the mocking comments of his sisters; they claimed his snores could frighten off a wolf pack.

Brushing himself off, he got up. The maul he'd claimed in … well in wherever he had come from, was resting against a small bedside dresser. It wasn't the double headed-hammer style of his own folk, but the more crown-shaped head that Breton smiths seemed to prefer. Still it had served him well. For that matter it was the only weapon he had right now.

Looking down at himself, he saw that he was still garbed in the mis-matched collection of armor that he'd claimed from the various feral shriven that he'd had to kill. How had he managed to sleep in armor? For that matter why a bosmer smith had made one of their leaf-style scale huabrek's sized to someone like him, he would never know. Perhaps that was one of the endless labors in Cold Harbor. Right, that's where he'd been. The realm of Molag Bal, lord of testing and the strength of disparate union. Or as some would have it lord of rapes and soul-stealer. He sighed. There was very little point in any mortal trying to define one of the Daedric Princes. He wasn't going to waste time thinking about it.

Instead he examined the strangely detailed haubrek. It didn't protect his neck much, and a great deal of the burn scarring he'd inadvertently earned in his early apprenticeship in the Order of the Dragon could easily be seen. He shrugged. Poorly designed or not, it was better than no armor.

Without much expectation that he would find anything, he looked in the pack he'd apparently kicked to the foot of the bed. Oddly enough the coins and food he'd gathered appeared to have traveled back to Nirn with him. The meat smelled edible, if not actually appetizing. He rummaged through the rest of the pack; a few lockpicks, a carefully corked vial of what looked and smelled like pure water, and a ring set with a small dark red stone.

He hefted the pack. Time to find out where he was.

He took a step toward the door, and a familiar aged voice called to him from a corner of the room. Out of the corner of his gaze, he could see the ghostly moths again. Inwardly he sighed. He'd been rescued. Now perhaps he would find out the price.

The price turned out to be much more vague than he'd expected. The prophet, as he now recalled Lyris calling the old man, had simply told him to find his way in the world. Apparently Mol would be contacted when he was needed. Or instructed.

Hefting the maul, he made his way out into the sunlight. He had time to note cobblestone streets and fair weather, when an attractive young redguard hailed him.

"So you are alive! And awake!" Her tone was pleased, and it made him wonder if this was a personal compliment or if she'd put money on the likelihood of his survival. As they spoke, he cautiously came slightly closer, carefully gauging her reactions as he made his way into her personal space.

A slight flush and a shy smile told him that it was at least partly personal.

He swallowed and stepped slightly back. While the idea was sort of flattering, after all she was pretty for a female man and he was a relatively young, relatively healthy male mer – but experience and a large family with many sisters had taught him to be wary with any female, most especially one from a different culture. _Don't presume_, he chided himself.

"You might want to speak with Captain Kaleen," Her voice had a hint of shyness still. "She's really the one responsible for saving you."

"Yet here you are watching over me. I thank you for that kindness."

She grinned, and her eyes sparkled. "Can I help you with anything?"

This time there was no mistaking the ... interest ... in her voice. He recalled the same tone in the voices of his sisters Lash and Urgash when they were discussing their plans for some hapless male. And while he was male, and relatively young, and healthy and ... potentially cautiously interested, it didn't seem like a good idea. He'd spent most of his life either among the clan of his youth, which meant most of the local females were related to him, and not really appropriate for romance. The other part had been with the Dragon Order, and things had been much more focused on combat and survival. Not much time for the gentler arts.

Add to that he really wasn't all that sure what a man, specifically a female redgard man, would consider acceptable. Best not to risk it.

All this went through his mind in a moment, and he said. "I do have two questions, if you would be so kind. Could you tell me where I might find Captain Kaleen. And where I might find a branch of the Guild of Personal and Family Finances."

She looked blank for a moment, and then suddenly grinned again. "You mean the nearest bank. Come, I'll show you." Without waiting for him to actually answer, she took off at a quick jog.

He followed her, trying to distract himself from watching the rather nice view of her from behind by taking note of the peaked architecture and patterned cobblestones of the city. He didn't think he'd ever been here before, but he wasn't sure. Uneasily he recalled the prophet's comment about being a vestige of his former self. Did that mean he should remember this place?

For that matter what had the female redgard called it 'the bank'? Did men shorten the names of everything?

"Just so you know-" The pretty redgard paused to gesture at a nearby building. He only avoided running into her because he had been watching her backside. "That's the Rosy Lion. Best Inn in Daggerfall, or at least the one with the best ale." Shooting him an encouraging grin, she started off again.

That definitely seemed like an invitation. But to what and how much of it.

His speculations were interrupted as he caught sight of a purple banner on a smallish building. The registered insignia of Guild of Personal and Family Finances. Or as his escort would have it; a bank. He'd recognized it in the moment before she cheerfully pointed it out. Something about the stairs up to it seemed to be familiar, and he slowly turned around, trying to find anything that would jog his memory. Across the way, he could see an open-sided structure. The glimpses of heat waves and coals, along with the ringing of metal on metal told him it was a public forge.

Standing in one of the entryways to the forge was a green clad tiny mer. A breton, he rather thought. A bit overdressed to be interested in metalsmithing, but that wasn't really his concern was it? Slowly he turned away; something was familiar, but it was too vague for him to pin it down. He went up the stone steps into the building, and was immediately lost in the crush of people.

He was taller than most of them; Bretons and Redgards. The few Orisimer like him stood out. There were at least two clerks, hastily checking scrolls that kept popping into and out of existence, directing the attentions of various customers to temporary magical portals that were keyed to recognize the customer. The nearest clerk was a Breton. Dark blonde.

As he let himself move slowly along the line, he mused that something was familiar here. Blonde. Breton. Blacksmithing. He sighed, and let his mind wander where it would. He knew he had sisters. A large clan ... from where? Try something else, who was his father? That brought a wave of sorrow, and something worse. Something bad had happened.

Bad things happening; well he'd obviously been killed, had that something to do with his father? He thought not. So how long had he been in Cold Harbor anyway? What year was it? He had glimpses of memories of labors, complaints that the least fit for a given task was assigned to it. Frustrated laughter that somehow made him think of the ridiculous hauberk he was wearing.

Then he came to the front of the line, and for a moment his eyes and maybe his memory were playing trickster. A blonde Breton, hammering away at an over sized forge, twitting him about how the slender man was smithing iron and the mighty mer was cooking. A name. He knew the name, almost.

"Welcome to the bank of Daggerfall, I am Angier-"

He felt rooted to the spot. The aquiline little nose, the slender hands; even the hair was the same. This close he could even identify that her scent had a familiar note. "Stower." He finished. Still caught up in the piece of memory, he added without thinking. "I think I knew your brother."

Her eyes went to his right elbow, where the barest glimpse of the tattoo that identified him as an order member was just visible. What bits of the tattoo had survived his burns, anyway.

'Alard' she didn't say it aloud, but her lips formed the name.

He knew that name. Knew it - and Alard had been as much a brother to him in the order as any of his blood kin. But there were blanks; he couldn't seem to recall the details, but a sudden clenching in his gut told him that something very bad had happened.

This wasn't about his father, it was different. Worse. Something to do with the order.

Before he could say anything, Angier's expression darkened, and she looked warily in the direction of the offices. "Would you care to make a deposit?" Her voice was overly loud, and she bit her lip as if to stop herself from adding anything else.

He nodded. This was not the time or the place for such a conversation. "Yes," He said firmly. "I'd like access to my account."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: The conventions of computer gaming mean that any time you go into the Bank of Daggerfall, Angier Stower is always ready to assist, and that she apparently can give her full attention to an unlimited number of PC's. Same for innkeepers, shopkeepers, guildmasters and so on. Well ... as a die-hard RPG'er, in my personal universe she does have hours and even sometimes whole days off of work_.

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention**

**~~In The Guild of Personal and Family Finances~~**

"Please sign the Authorization and Acknowledgement of Access to Family and Personal Money and Valuables." Angier's tone was calmly professional as she handed him the parchment and a freshly inked quill.

Even so, there was the faintest tremor in her tiny hand, and Mol could smell the way her stress level had shot upward since the mention of her brother Alvard.

Alvard who as a fellow member of the Dragon Order was just as much a brother to Mol as he was to Angier. Alvard who had been taken to the Waling Prison and the Forge of Despair by Mannimarco, just as Mol gra Durga had. Who was still trapped there.

Mol was halfway through his signature when he finally noted that some of the names on the authorization form were unfamiliar. His younger sisters Urgash and Lash were both listed, but there was no one else from the stronghold. Two new names stared back at him; Hisa Ni Caemiere and Hisa Fae Caemiere.

For a moment he paused, an ink stain slowly spreading from where the quill rested against the parchment.

"I'll just-" Angier was reaching out for the form, and mid-gesture suddenly seemed to process that he hadn't finished signing it. In a soft voice, she asked. "Is there a problem?"

If there was, it wasn't one that could be worked out here. He would have to track down his sisters and talk to one or both of them. Caemiere ... that was an altmer name, he was sure. And he'd heard it somewhere before.

Crap. Time in Cold Harbor was apparently not good for one's memories.

Looking at the Account Record, Urgash had accessed it about 2 hours ago, and prior to that Hisa Fae had done so the previous evening. No listing as to where they might be. Could be anywhere on Tamriel.

Pulling himself back to the present, he made an effort to smile at Angier. Or at least not to frown; after all an Orisimer smile had been known to make female men rather nervous on occasion. After a moment he answered her. "Sorry, I'm apparently distracted lately."

She gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I know the feeling."

As he finished his signature and handed her the parchment, he said. "I've been away for a while. I wonder if I might consult with you about something later." He nodded vaguely in the direction of the nearest door.

She nodded, and bit her lower lip. "I'm here until dusk today."

"I'm told there is an Inn relatively nearby called the Rosy Lion."

She opened a personal access portal for him. "Have a lovely rest of day and evening." Her voice was formal but she gave him a brief smile and a nod. A nod could mean anything.

He made a quick perusal of the Account. A fairly extensive collection of honing stones and other expensive components for what had to be Urgash's blacksmithing. Judging from the unfamiliarity of some of them, she'd gotten better. His own studies of smithing were comparatively limited.

Then a selection of food items that rather surprised him. Honeycomb. Several bluish-silver thoraxes that were almost half the size of his mace head. Bottles of something labeled "Snake Venom"; and that was just a few of the ones he recognized easily.

He'd never particularly been interested in cooking prior to his enforced pseudo apprenticeship in Molag Bal's realm, but he had to admit it had a draw for him that blacksmithing never really had. He doubted that these were Urgash's things, and most of the altmer he'd met, especially the nobility, tended to hire specialists to do their cooking.

Most of the rest of the contents were cloth, thread, very expensive looking needles and an odd top-like thing with a small label that proclaimed it to be "Hisa Ni's drop spindle, do NOT use without prior permission." In a lighter hand, there was a notation that "after all, if pink is not enough, I can and will add floral patterns."

He raised an eyebrow. And did not touch the spindle. He pulled out enough coin to make sure that he could afford a night at the Rosy Lion, dinner for himself, Angier and possibly the kind Redguard woman, and left most everything else alone.

**~~The Fighting Guild of Tamriel~~**

After spending probably far too long considering his account, and deciding not to leave any kind of note for his sisters, he headed outside only to see that that the square area and the fountain were illuminated by the golden light of late afternoon. He made his slow way across the cobblestone square. Sitting at the base of the fountain was an ill-kept Breton speaking earnestly to a seal-point cat. The Breton seemed to be asking for a favor.

Mol shrugged. Not a conversation he particularly wanted to interrupt, and everyone else nearby seemed to be in quite a hurry.

As he slowly ambled along the streets, he noted the blade sigil that marked the Fighting Guild of Tamriel. Well, he wasn't sure where the Dragon Order's offices in Daggerfall might be, so here was a place to start.

Once inside, he could hear the sounds of rhythmic striking; practice weapons over and over on practice targets and dummies. Over that came a gruff and sarcastic voice that would have to be one of the instructors, damning the recruits for being a bunch of soft-bellied slugs.

"Stretch those arms, maggots! I've seen mud crabs with more discipline than you lot!"

Mol's lower lip curled in the slightest smile, and he felt himself relaxing. Dragon Order or Fighter's Guild, some things remained constant.

A dark haired Breton male turned from where he'd been watching the group of linen garbed, sweat soaked young people do painfully slow pushups. The Bretons armor was polished, but well-worn.

Mol was aware of the way the approaching Breton looked over the Orisimer's armor. The man's gaze flickered from piece to mismatched piece. Then to the maul slung across Mol's back, and finally again a look of consideration. Mol waited, well-aware that he still hadn't really recovered from his sojourn. He probably didn't look overly much like the warrior he'd once been. Mismatched armor was the least unusual thing about him now.

"So, considering joining?" The Breton's voice was lower than usual for his kind. "I am Basile Fenandre, one of the sergeants of the Guide. We could always use good people."

Mol was surprised at the bluntness of the offer. He would have expected more in the way of testing or weeding out. That in itself was odd. What had happened while he had been …. gone?

"I was curious," Mol answered thoughtfully, "if you had any connection with the Order of the Dragon."

Basile's eyebrows raised and he looked thoughtful. "I had heard that after the Nibenay Valley chapterhouse was destroyed-"

Nibenay Valley. The sound of that name sent a wave of rage and angst and frustration through Mol's belly. In his mind's eye he saw glimpses of some half-remembered battle; dark shapes pouring through red-edged gates from somewhere else. Darkness ill light by flashes of desperately summoned magic. A pale skinned Breton scrambling for a nearby weapon; forgoing armor because there wasn't time.

Cold magic weaving through muscles struggling to resist. Wanting to scream, to curse, locked in a body that no longer responded the way he wanted it to. A glimmer of light on metal, a golden curved blade raised high. Voices chanting praise to the Lord of Rapes. The smell of the blood of men and mer.

A hand gripping his upper arm brought him back to the present.

Basile Fenandre was staring fixedly at him. "Friend," he spoke in a voice that called Mol back from his fragmented memories. "You survived the Wailing Prison."

Mol blinked, taking a breath and forcing his muscles to relax. "Mol gro Durga," he introduced himself.

"I know someone who should speak with you, but that can wait until later," Basile said, "for now, I offer you membership in our Guild." He gestured to the other side of the hall, where a whip-slender slender Argonian and an angry looking Redguard were deep in conversation. "Come. Speak with our guildmaster, Sees-All-Colors."

"Membership." Mol echoed, letting the Breton lead him past the exercising recruits.

"You'll do well here," Basile spoke matter-of-factly. "We need the help, you likely could use the money, and it's a place to start."

Clearly, Mol was not the only refugee from the Wailing Prison that Basile had run across.

As they approached, the Redguard shook his head and walked abruptly away.

The Argonian turned to face Mol and his companion with a slight shrug for the departing Redguard. To Basile she said. "Those who fight the river face an avoidable battle." Focusing on Mol, she gave the slight showing of teeth that was the Argonian friendly greeting.

Basile said. "I think that Mol gro Durga might make an excellent advanced recruit."

Sees-All-Colors extended her right arm, not in the style of the handshakes of men, but in the strong hand to forearm grip of Orisimer to companion. "You are answer to our need, if you are willing."

Mol liked her right away.

When she explained that the current contract was to battle daedra, and defend Tamriel, he liked her even more.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Multicultural interactions can take many forms.  
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**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention**

Mol gro Durga's first impression of the Rosy Lion was the smell of fresh goat, simmered with garlic and probably marinated with some type of sweet ale. Fresh bread, and was that a hint of battaglier?

"Um, excuse me." A hesitant female voice came from behind, drawing his attention to the fact that he was standing at a dead stop blocking the doorway, eyes half-closed just inhaling the scent of good cooking.

He stepped aside and a slender dark-haired young female Breton slipped past him. She glanced warily up at him as she passed, and once she was further into the room she looked a bit relieved. The scent of her fear was just a whisper of a discordant note under all the smells of good foods.

Why would she be afraid of him? Was it the fact that he was armored?

He looked around. There were a mix of civilian and military here, some in armor, most not. Many carried weapons, even a few that rivaled the size of his maul. But looking more closely he noted that most of the customers were grouped by race. There was some mingling among the men; a few redguards and Bretons were sitting and drinking with one another.

So despite the new Covenant that Daggerfall was part of, the unity apparently did not extend to social interactions. Near the hearth, a pair of Breton musicians played softly, one on lute and the other with some kind of round instrument that was held and blown into in a way that made Mol think of a flute.

"You made it!" the greeting was cheerfully exuberant. He looked to his right to see the redguard who had met up with him earlier bearing down on him with a bottle in one hand and an overly large mug in the other. "Come, the hearth is warm and you'll need to replenish your energies."

The sparkle in her eye implied plenty of pleasant possibilities for use of those energies. That is, if he was reading her correctly, which he certainly might not be. He followed her to the seats she'd indicated by the hearth. However things played out, she certainly had an attractive walk and he watched her appreciatively as he followed along.

"I'm Mihayya, by the way." She glanced back, noted where his gaze had been, and her smile became downright predatory. That was encouraging. Sitting down, she offered him the mug. "Cloudy Truth-Glimpse," She told him. "Drink of friendship. Local lore has is that while the old aldmeris saying claims that truth is in the wine, friendship calls for only a single glimpse."

The mug smelt of alcohol, hops and a subtle blend of spices. Her breath had a touch of the same scent, implying she'd either taken a sip, or had a mug herself. He took a pull, and it was just as good as he'd suspected. It had a sharp tang that was surprising. In his experience men preferred sweeter drinks than mer. Especially Orisimer.

It was also much stronger than the average ale, judging by the way he felt almost instantly more relaxed. That told him that if he didn't want to make a fool of himself, he'd best start eating as well. Years ago his younger sister Lash had introduced him to imported Snake Slime on an empty stomach. This had led her to the discovery that her younger brother Mol was not only a talkative drunk, but would babble on any topic with a completely embarrassing level of honesty.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a harried female Breton with her hands full of empty mugs paused at their end of the long table. "Bowl of stew? It's fresh-made this afternoon."

"Yes," He said, "and a large sop, if there are any of the battaglir loaves left." He glanced at Mihayya. "Anything for you?" "Maybe later." She answered, with a twinkle in her eye. Beside him, Mol was aware of the server's eyes going wide. Was she surprised to see a man and a mer flirting? Or was it just that he was an Orisimer?

Across the table, Mihayya's eyes flashed for a moment, and then she gave the server a calculatingly inviting smile. "You are still on the day schedule, right Elyna?"

Startled, the young server hesitantly answered. "Um, yes I am."

Mol turned to face the Breton more fully. She was a little older than the rest of the servers, and some of the lines in her face indicated that she'd had more than her share of sadness in her life. He introduced himself, making sure to keep his voice gentle and encouraging. "Mol gro Durga, new to this fair city, and I thank you for your timely suggestion of dinner." Out of the corner of his gaze, he could see that the redguard was looking slightly smug with approval.

Mihayya added, "Your shift must be almost over." Her confident and even commanding tone indicated that she knew darn well it was. "Do join us for dinner, won't you? You can say you were interviewing a potential back-up cook. I know Javier has been taking the odd day off without warning."

Elyna frowned. "You've never said-"

Mihayya laughed out loud. "No, I'm not the cook – Mol is. So when you bring the stew to show him the level of supplies he would have to work with, you can ask him what he'd change about it."

"Yes," Elyna said hastily, clearly looking for a way out of the conversation, "I'll just get your dinner." She gave a slight bob of a bow to Mol without actually meeting his gaze, and all but fled the table.

Mol raised an eyebrow to Mihayya. "I'm a cook?"

"Yes," she promptly agreed. "The way you took a moment coming in to smell the food, the way you knew the battiglier loaf had been made today; for that matter the way your hands had been stained, and the smell of garlic and honey about you when we fished you out of the sea." She grinned. "Trust me, on board ship you know that a good cook – or a bad one – can make all the difference in crew morale." She looked down at his hands for a moment, and then smiled. "And I've heard that cooks can be good with their hands."

He thought about that for a moment before he answered. "Some," He paused delicately, "ingredients are a little delicate for some cooks."

She took a long pull from the bottle she was holding, and did not entirely fail to hide the grin of anticipation. "In my experience," she said, taking a moment to lick a few drops of wine off her lips, "a cook willing to pay attention to the principles of the recipe can learn to deal with quite a variety of ingredients."

It took him an effort to keep his mouth closed. Was she implying what it sounded like? He wasn't without experience, but that was pretty much with Orisimer women. Cultures differed.

Elyna's return with a large bowl of hearty stew and several crusty battaglier sops saved him from the need to say anything right away.

He murmured thanks, and started in. The stew was just as good as it had smelled, and the bread was a hearty dark loaf indicating that a number of grains or flours had been included. He was aware of the redguard's speculative gaze, and resolved not to say anything more on the subject of 'cooking' until Elyna had left the table.

Mihayya smiled up at the server. "I see that as I expected, Mol here has a hearty appetite," she waited just a beat and then added in a much more intimate tone, "just like you, Elyna."

The Breton flushed vivid red, all the way down to her not unattractive cleavage. "Mihayya." Her voice was a strangled whisper. But she didn't actually leave.

Okay, Mol thought to himself, Mihayya was definitely implying what he thought she was implying.

**~~And the Next Morning~~**

Mol woke out of an extremely erotic dream to the harsh voice of some kind of town crier shouting the praises of King Casimere. He was lying on something soft, feeling comfortable and warm.

Not Cold Harbor, then. Good.

Soft snoring to his left informed him that he was not alone. He turned, ever so slowly to see a tousle of golden hair very close. Pale soft skin tangled in linen sheets, and one darker arm thrown over the fair torso.

Elyna Ashcroft and Mihayya Aldwyr, he reminded himself. The fact that they had chosen to fall asleep with him was a very encouraging sign.

Apparently he had potential as a cook.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: This is turning out to be more slice of life than adventure. Not sure how I feel about that, but then I don't actually plan these stories, I just listen to what the characters show me.  
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**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. Used plot bunnies will be credited.  
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**~~Early in the Morning~~**

Mol lay still in the soft bed at the Rosy Lion, watching the sleeping ladies beside him. Elyna' was lying on her stomach, head slightly turned toward him. Dark gold hair covered the Breton's face, and spilled onto the fair skin of her upper back.

One darker skinned arm was flung across Elyna's back, and that was all he could see of Mihayya, who had somehow managed to gather most of the blanket over herself. The sheet still covered both Elyna and Mol from the waist down.

Beyond the bed on Mihayya's side was a small table containing several now-empty bottles of Truth-glimpse. Despite the redguard's initial suggestion that "only a single glimpse" was needed for friendship, once they'd begun talking … and other things … the drinks had certainly flowed.

To avoid saying more than he really wanted to reveal, Mol had made a point of doing things that kept his mouth occupied. Initially it had seemed safer, eventually it had been more enjoyable, and ultimately he had learned a few things about what female men, or at least these two, preferred their lovers to be attending to.

After the second bottle of sunset rose, Elyna in particular had been quite exacting about exactly what she liked, and how much of it she wanted.

So when she sleepily brushed the hair out of her eyes, and focused on him, he smiled.

And asked her rather suggestively about what she would suggest or require to break her fast.

Her slap was hard enough and unexpected enough to knock him out of the bed.

Behind her, Mihayya, who had apparently been awake or possibly awakened by the exchange, snickered.

Mol put a hand to his jaw. He wouldn't have thought that such a small female would have that much strength, and from a prone position at that. He stared after her, considering and rejecting a number of questions.

Finally he settled on an apology. After all, his mother had stressed that when in doubt of exactly what any female was upset about, it was best for the male in question to start by assuming he was wrong.

"Elyna, I didn't mean-"

She grabbed an empty tankard from the table and threw it at him. Fortunately her aim from a distance wasn't as skilled, and the tankard was leather, and neither damaged the wall, nor took any damage from the abuse.

"Do not EVER speak to me again."

She slammed the door on the way out.

By this time Mihayya had both hands over her mouth, unsuccessfully containing her amusement. When she finally caught her breath, she said. "Oh, Mol. You certainly have a way with women."

He sighed. "I have offended her."

The Redguard nodded. "Yes, you have seriously offended her."

After a moment, Mol added. "You aren't going to tell me what I did, are you?"

She appeared to consider the matter and finally said. "No. Partly because it's so much more fun this way. Partly also because if you do figure out not only what you did, but what to do about it, you will have earned what comes next."

Raising an eyebrow at her careful phrasing, he added. "And if I don't figure it out, I will have earned what comes next, true?"

She laughed.

He took that as a yes.

**~~Fragrance~~**

Knowing that Elyna worked at the Rosy Lion, Mol was tempted to just stay in bed all day. But he would have to eat, and if she was the one instructed to bring food to his room, well, that opened up plenty of ways for her to express her displeasure with him.

Besides, he really ought to speak with Angier Stower.

On his way out, Mol paused at the base of the stairs. Unlike the previous day's scent of fresh battaglir loaf, this morning's fresh bread had an unexpected addition; dragonthorn vine. He frowned, considering the oddity of such a choice. Years ago he and his sister Lash had been warned that dragonthorn, prior to blossoming, looked a great deal like battaglier vine. Their grandmother had warned them away from actually tasting the dragonthorne, telling them only that it was named 'with good reason' and that it was much more suited to an older palate.

Of course that hadn't been enough warning for ether of them. Mol still recalled the way that the bud had burned into his tongue when he'd bitten into it. He and Lash had headed for the nearest creek at a dead run. Grandmother Azug had been waiting there, knowing they would disregard her advice. Her laugher had been merciless, but not completely unkind.

Still, even as a seasoning to bread which would probably make it much less painful to the palate, it seemed an unlikely choice. Especially for men, who tended to avoid some of the sharper flavorings. On the other hand, judging by some of Mihayya's preferences, perhaps in an Inn whose customer's included Redguard men, perhaps some stronger options were indicated.

Eventually he made his way over to the service area nearest the kitchen, curious.

The heavyset cook he recalled from the previous evening's conversation greeted him warmly. "The Battaglier bread is already baking." Xavier, that was his name. Javier's grandson, and from the way Javier had gently put it, not the most skilled cook. Yet.

Mol asked, "I'm curious as to why you have added Dragonthorn vine to this morning's loaves. Isn't that a bit spicy for most men?"

Xavier looked blank for a moment. "Dragonthorn vine?"

Then the cook's expression faint curiosity gave way, as his eyes widened and the color drained from his face. "Dragonthorn vine?" His voice was somewhat choked as if he was hoping to be contradicted.

Inwardly Mol cringed. It was one thing to ruin one's own sense of taste for a day; it was quite another to have mis-seasoned an entire Inn's supply of fresh bread. He lowered his voice. "Yes, the scent is quite unmistakable."

Beads of sweat stood out on the heavyset cook's forehead. "Grandfather is going to kill me." He gazed hopelessly around at the few early morning patrons. "I don't have the supplies to make an entire new batch."

"New batch of what?" A muscular Breton with a confident manner approached from a nearby table where he'd been talking with a couple dressed in upper class garb. "Have you come up with some inspiration in the creative tradition of your grandfather?"

What little color was left in Xavier's face drained away at the question.

Mol began to be slightly worried that the poor cook would collapse.

"Publican Lafont ... Well ... I didn't ... it's not exactly."

The Breton's expression went from casual to slightly menacing with a rapidity that suggested to Mol that this was not the first time that Xavier's direction in the kitchen had been less than successful. Mihayya and Elyna had both seemed to be in agreement that there needed to be a "back up cook". Perhaps this was why.

It was an interesting problem. He considered; after all he'd had much less to work with to attempt to create palatable food in Cold Harbor. Given that there probably was some actual battaglir in the bread, the dragonthorne had probably rendered it highly spiced, but maybe still edible. What was needed was something to further tame it. Using the bread as a sop, then, what sort of stew would be a good counterpoint, and actually filling?

Daggerfall was a coastal town. Mudcrab stew might do it. A thicker broth would be better. More a chowder than a soup or stew, then. Many men or mer wouldn't eat oats, considering them animal feed, but ground fine enough they'd be an effective thickener. Maybe add some salt, or better yet, cook it with boiled sea water, because thirsty customers would want ale or beer. A sweeter ale might be a good compliment.

Mol's attention was drawn back to the conversation when Xavier's stammered explanation was interrupted by the now red-faced Publican Lafont.

In a quiet hiss, the angry Inn owner demanded. "Now tell me how you are going to fix this."

On the other side of the counter, Mol noted that Elyna was standing, waiting to get the attention of the chef. Her expression had darkened with worry as she took in the conversation.

In the pause where Xavier clearly wasn't coming up with any solution, she said in an overly cheerful voice. "So are you interviewing Mol as potential occasional cook?"

Gregoire Lafont startled, clearly shocked and possibly offended at her interruption.

Mol noted that she seemed to wilt under his glare.

But then Lafont turned to the Orisimer, and in a carefully controlled voice, asked. "Might you have some thoughts on the matter?" What little tone was in his voice seemed to be midway between frustration at the situation, irritation at the server's interruption and curiosity - after all how could things get worse?

"I can tell you what I would try," Mol said, and proceeded to explain his ideas.

Which was how "Mountain Fire Bread and Ocean Chowder" became a semi-exotic special three days a week at the Rosy Lion, and Mol earned himself a place as occasional cook at the Rosy Lion and the friendship of the Hawkton family. Xavier, as it turned out, was Elyna's younger brother. She still tended to avoid meeting his gaze, but at least she would occasionally speak to him.

Cooking food was much easier to deal with than trying to understand females.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's note: I regard the 'usual' ways that quests and adventures happen in ESO as one possibility in a multitude. Also if I just "told" them the way everyone does them - well that would be just too boring to be worth writing. Also it sometimes seems like everywhere in ESO is a short walk from everywhere else. I think that the world is bigger than that._

_I'm having some writers block on this story, so I'm posting a short chapter to try and give myself a kickstart._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. Used plot bunnies will be credited.**

**~~A Simple Request~~**

Mol entered the Daggerfall branch of the Fighting Guild of Tamriel and walked past the exercise area. This morning there were only two slender looking redguards in the exercise area. They were doing one-handed pushups under the watchful eye of an Orismer sergeant, who was in the midst of a recitation of their probable and unfortunate ancestry. Mol couldn't make out the details of the the orc's comments, because an argument at the back of the room was loud enough to obscure it.

"It is beneath this one's dignity and a waste of this one's skills to ask her to discover the fate of a lost _supply wagon from a lumber mill_." A golden-furred kajiit wearing reddish hued leather armor stood, arms bent and claws slightly flexed, glaring at Captain Basile Fenandre. Her ears flicked momentarily back along her scalp and the tip of her tail twitched in irritation.

Basile just waited, an expectant look on his face.

Unlike the last time Mol had seen him, the Breton was unarmored. His simple brown tunic and leather leggings had seen better days, and from the stains, probably combat. His right arm was in a sling and the right side of his face looked to be one massive bruise.

"It was not a request, operative Aelif." From the careful way that Basile spoke, Mol wondered if his jaw might have been recently dislocated and re-set. Judging that this was not a conversation that the Breton really wanted to prolong, Mol made a point of taking slightly heavier steps as he approached them.

The kajiit's eyes narrowed in irritation.

Basile glanced neutrally toward Mol, and said. "Bring this recruit with you. Since this is such an easy mission, I'm sure you are more than capable of combining it with instruction of a new member of our guild."

Aelif sniffed, and said. "This one is but a simple warrior." Glancing toward where Mol stood patiently, she added, "If the Orisimer wishes to learn the ways of his new craft, then this one shall strive to provide effective guidance."

Basile looked as though he might say something, then just shook his head and walked toward a nearby stair.

Aelif watched him go. Once again her ears momentarily flattened against the side of her head. Then she turned her attention to Mol. "How shall this one call you?"

"Mol gro Durga."

Her eyes widened just slightly and her tail lashed back and forth. "Durga..?" She tilted her head and examined him closely. "This one sees the marks that you bear. Some from fire, and others from the hand of an artist. You move like one trained to combat, but your gaze is pulled to distant noise. Your eyes tell this one that you are not used to the sounds of this city." She paused, and said in a calculating tone. "The Breton Captain trusts you, despite your name."

"My name?" It came out a little more aggressively than Mol had intended, which was to say that the two sharp words echoed through the hall and one of the redguard recruits was so startled that she fell onto the floor and the level of conversation in the Guild Hall dropped dramatically.

"This one has heard the name Durga before." Aelif stepped slightly to her right. Mol realized that meant she could tell that he was left handed, and wanted to make sure that if he got physical with her, she would start with the advantage. "Durga gro Makur."

Her tone made it clear that she considered the name to be something ill-omened. From the sudden silence in the hall, she was not the only one.

This time Mol kept his voice under control. "My father." He whispered.

A wave of fury swept over Mol. Anger and sorrow and frustration. Something bad had happened, something wrong, and …. He didn't know what it was that had happened. He took stock of himself, fists clenched so that he didn't ready his weapon, muscles tense. He was grinding his teeth.

And suddenly the name Caemiere that he'd seen on the access list in the Guild of Family and Personal finances seemed familiar. He could almost see someone in his mind's eye. A tall altmer with ice-blue eyes, and twin swords. A promise spoken in a low dangerous voice. Not a friend; exactly. But not an enemy.

Just as suddenly the bit of memory was gone, leaving him with a dull sense of frustration and a headache. And the realization that Aelif had been watching his reaction. She nodded to herself, as if he had passed some sort of test.

Her tail lashed back and forth again, then stilled. "This one will lead the way." She said abruptly, and walked to the main doorway.

"Aelif," he tried to keep his voice soft, but he could tell there was more of an edge to it than he intended, "what do you know of Durga?"

She didn't answer until they were outside.

"This one has heard many tales of the fall of Nibenay" She eyed him carefully, and then continued "perhaps they are suitable only for the entertainment of sleepy kittens."

As they made their way through Daggerfall, she shrugged. "Come, recruit. This one will tell you a tale of woe as we keep company with merchants."

Her tone sharpened. "Merchants who seem unable to guide a simple wagon load of branches to the Crafting Guild of Carpentry's Accessible Work Area." Unlike Mihayya, she pronounced the entire name, but her sarcasm made it an insulting commentary on those who needed so much description.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: This chapter has been a struggle. It's just slightly possible that I was ... inspired ... by some of the memorable abuses of the dye stations in ESO online._

**Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of the wondrous creations of Bethesda Softworks or Zenimax Online, however I certainly lay claim to misspellings, mistakes, tweaks, spells and characters of my own invention. Used plot bunnies will be credited.**

**~~New Friends and an Exciting Journey. Or Not~~**

At the eastern gates out of Daggerfall, their job awaited. A collection of Bretons waited, standing around a two-wheeled cart pulled by a white and black mare with speckles on her rump.

Standing hear the horse's head were a pair of brown-haired, hazel-eyed young Breton men. One wore an altmer-style robe dyed lurid purple and trimmed with bile green. The other wore inexpertly made armor that was probably the product of a novice at the public forge. The disparate dress might have been an attempt to downplay the fact that they were completely identical.

Twins, thought Mol to himself. But they were too short. Again he suddenly had the image of a tall stern looking altmer. Long silver hair tied back in an akaviri style twist. And someone else; brother or twin with shorter hair usually concealed by his helm. Icy eyes and a confident frown that forewarned danger. A leap that ended with a blade in an unwary enemy whose parry clattered uselessly against altmeri steel. No, it hadn't been a leap. A jump. From somewhere impossibly high.

Mol shook his head, bringing his attention back to the present. Besides the two Breton young men that seemed to be in charge of the mostly empty wagon, there were also a group of females. They tended to hover near the back of wagon where a pile overstuffed backpacks and supplies had been shoved into a corner. At least one, possibly two crumpled cloaks had been piled near them.

One of the females seemed always to be in motion. She was pale and slender with freckles across cheeks and forearms, and light blonde hair braided back along her head in a style reminiscent of how some redguard men wore their hair. She regularly would gesture with her right hand. On her third finger she wore a dark ring set with a large pale pink stone that seemed to sparkle in the least amount of light. At any given time, she was either waving that hand about, or clutching it close with her other hand.

The other female Breton men in the group seemed similar to Mol in the same way he wouldn't have been able to make out individuals in a flock of excited birds. Garbed mostly in greens and browns, he noted only a single short blade at one waist, and an bow and quiver inexpertly slung over another's shoulder.

Most of them were wearing gowns. Mol hoped their shoes were more appropriate than their garb, or they were going to have very sore feet before the journey was properly begun.

As Mol was noting them and coming to the conclusion that there was not a single person here he would expect to count on in a fight, another small wagon joined the group. This one appeared to be full of various crates, sacks and boxes and had a heavy tarp draped over it and fastened along the edges. It rattled as it rolled up and was drawn not by a horse but by what looked at first like an oversized wolf. Mol had never seen a wolf with a brindle coat, or such a wide and rounded muzzle before. He guessed that meant that only one parent was actually wolf.

"Hail and well-met good friends!" The redguard leading this odd little cart didn't seem to expect any answer to her greeting, nor did she get one. Her long dark braids were adorned with colorful beads, and though her clothing looked strong enough to offer protection, it's red, yellow and gold coloration was almost as distracting as the young Breton's purple and green.

Between the colors and the noise, anything along the road would know they were coming far in advance.

Aelif took them all in with a single disdainful glance. She sniffed in the direction of the Breton with the bow, and then addressed the wagon-drivers. "Aelif and her companion have come from the fighting guild to escort you along your journey. Is it not about to begin?"

The two young Breton males jumped, and faced her.

"Yes," the purple-robed youngster puffed up his chest. "We shall get underway momentarily." He waved his staff in a flourish that nearly knocked their horse in the head. "Attend me, O spirit servant." He intoned dramatically.

There was a belch of purplish sulfurous smoke. It faded to reveal a small creature about the size of a small toddler or a large monkey. It stood, slightly hunched and waved it's greenish and scaly clawed hands. The tips of it's claws crackled breifly with blueish energies. It made a hissing noise, and glared around, crimson eyes wide. Finally it focused on the purple garbed mage who had called it.

"Asss you command, Master Tramnil."

The bejeweled Breton and an older companion both jumped and gave little gasps.

The horse turned her head to look at the small creature. Twitching an ear, she blew out a breath, and started nibbling a nearby patch of heather.

'Master Tramnil' waved his hand at the females, and said. "Fear not, for my daedric minion shall protect you from harm."

Beside Mol, Aelif murmured. "This one wonders why, in the face of such obvious ability, it was house Tramnil who paid the Fighting Guild for more aid?"

Having no answer for that, Mol shrugged. It was not uncommon for sorcery-trained persons to have a personal relationship with some minor creature or spirit. But this drama? What was the point of it? His own family had a longstanding connection with one such spirit. Sparkle's usual price for any summoning was a single drop of blood from the summoner. Despite the ominous-sounding nature of that agreement, in practice it gave her leeway to attend any of "her" family if they were injured, using the argument that shed blood was the agreed-upon summons.

'Master Tramnil' was looking sharply in Aelif's direction, clearly having heard her comment. His cheeks were red, and he looked irritated, but he said nothing directly. Mol suspected that if it were up to him, he would just dismiss the escort. Instead, he elected to pretty much ignore them. In the meantime he was exuberant with comments to the females, instructions to the horse (who clearly didn't need any), and pointless instructions to his 'daedric minion' to climb nearby trees, gather bits of nearby plants and as far as Mol could tell, anything that the boy could think of, but little that was actually useful.

The road was unpaved, but it was in good condition. The weather was cool but fine.

Within the first mile it became obvious that 'Master Tramnil's robe was new, and not cut for traveling. After tripping over it the third time, he took to grasping it at the waist to hold it up. This meant that he had to set down his staff, which was probably a relief to the horse, whom he'd nearly smacked several times.

Within thirty minutes the young Breton with the ring, and her elder companion, whom Mol learned was her mother, were "Just simply exhausted".

The armor garbed twin suggested that they ride in the wagon. The redguard merchant cheerfully seconded the suggestion.

Once the two women were seated, the redguard merchant made sure to follow it fairly closely.

"I understand you will be preparing for a wedding?" She asked. It wasn't really a question.

"My dearest daughter Gwynyvyra here is set to wed Gailen Tramnil," The woman's tone was that of telling something in confidence, but her volume was more than enough to make certain anyone nearby would hear. "He will inherit the lumber mill from his father Edwyn, you know."

Aelif rolled her eyes, and promptly informed Mol. "This one will take point." Before he could answer she had darted well ahead of the group.


End file.
